by Tom Lloyd
‘The Legion of the Damned is well-named,’ she told him. ‘It’s an army of mercenaries. My younger brother, Vorizh, made the mistake of turning a necromancer to vampirism several hundred years ago. The combination has proved, ah, troublesome.’ She grimaced delicately.
‘In this case, the necromancer had hired mercenaries to protect him and his lands, and in one of his most successful experiments he used a spell to take their life-force and replace it with magic. They did not take kindly to this - although they are now extremely powerful, and of course, they’re untouched by the effects of time. Think of the Damned as an army of minor Raylin and I am sure you will understand the danger.’
She turned back to her brother. ‘Something is drawing power of all kinds to the city - more than a score of Raylin, the remaining White Circle mages, the King of Narkang, and a necromancer I do not believe is allied to any faction. Now we have added Aracnan, who makes all of the fifteen or more Raylin I’ve employed pale into insignificance, two of the Vukotic family and at least two Skulls. There is also the immediate prospect of Scree being attacked, either by the Farlan, or by the Knights of the Temples - or maybe even both.
‘What other forces remain hidden, that I do not know. The Farlan Lord holds two Skulls, and the minstrel who commands this troop of players wears an Augury Chain around his neck.’
Beside her Doranei gave a splutter of alarm and cried, ‘What? No!’ before lowering his voice and whispering, ‘Oh Gods, are you sure?’
‘Certain,’ she said. ‘I saw it myself.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Rojak.’
Doranei cursed under his breath, his fingers clenched into fists. ‘So it’s true then.’
‘What is true?’ Zhia said, surprised. Now here was another piece of the puzzle, perhaps. ‘You know this minstrel?’
Doranei’s eyes drifted part her towards the stage, where a flutist was coaxing slow, mournful notes from his instrument. Zhia reached out and snapped her fingers in front of his face to gain his attention again.
‘Doranei, listen to me! Do you know this minstrel? Is this why the king is here?’
Doranei shook his head. ‘Not exactly; but we had hoped to …’ his voice tailed off as he found himself turning back to the stage, then he wrenched himself back to his companions. ‘I must inform the king immediately.’
‘Not yet,’ Zhia said firmly. She pointed to a tall man dressed in robes of green and gold emblazoned with a pair of bees flying upside-down who had launched into the narrator’s opening speech. The costume was finished off by a jester’s cap. ‘The performance is starting, and if you leave now, you will draw attention to yourself. One of the players was on the roof with a crossbow earlier. Would this Rojak’s associates recognise you?’ Doranei nodded, glancing towards the curtained entrance with suspicion. Koezh saw the concern and shook his head.
‘There is no one out there, not even a servant.’
He slumped a little in acquiescence. ‘I can find the king at the interval, then. They will not kill him here.’
‘Are you sure? it might be too tempting to ignore.’
‘As sure as I can be,’ Doranei said. He looked uncertain, trying to balance his own knowledge with what help Zhia might be able to provide. ‘Their feud is a long-standing one,’ he started, ‘and just assassinating the king lacks …’
He floundered for a moment before Zhia interjected, ‘The personal touch? The need a man has to drive in the knife himself?’ She sighed. ‘The centuries go by and folk do not change. I hope that if the time comes, your king will prove himself the better man and not hesitate. After all, I cannot have an opponent in Heartland who is prone to grandstanding - he will be a sore disappointment to me.’
Doranei nodded, but his attention was on the stage again, his face thunderous.
Interesting, Zhia thought, this Rojak has really got under the king’s skin. I wonder what exactly did the minstrel do, and why? As that thought crossed her mind, she turned to follow Doranei’s gaze. Now she acknowledged both the colours and the cut of the narrator’s clothes. So this play is merely to goad King Emin? That means they know he’s here already. But what purpose does this all have?
Zhia forced her own eyes away from the stage and back to the conversation at hand. ‘I shall have to tighten security in the city. We have so many strangers wandering the streets that it’s only a matter of time before people start to die.’ She looked at the two men facing her. Koezh wore a look of brotherly affection, a welcome change from the drawn, world-weary face he generally sported. Doranei appeared to be gripped with some sort of ghastly fascination as he looked from one sibling to the other.
‘Please don’t take offence,’ Doranei began hesitantly. Zhia immediately pouted, causing him to stammer as he continued, ‘but, since you are only masquerading as a member of the, ah, the White Circle-‘
‘Why do I care?’ Zhia finished for him.
Doranei nodded and bowed his head.
‘We are cursed to care, my brother and I. The Gods saw to that in their final judgment. Do you know nothing of our history?’
‘Little,’ Doranei admitted. He looked around to check no one was paying them any attention, and lowered his voice even further. ‘I know that you were turned into vampires, the undead. To stay alive you are forced to drain the life from others, and the touch of sunlight will set your skin aflame.’
‘The youth of today, they live only for the moment.’ Zhia gave a schoolmistressy click of the tongue. ‘That was not the only curse bestowed that night - foresight I could not have expected from a God, yet one of them did realise that to be such a monster would drive a person mad, so to ensure every drop of horror was wrung from this punishment, the Gods decreed that we would not decline into madness, but that our sense would remain, and our wits would be untouched by either the passing of years or guilt over our deeds.’ She could feel her fingers tighten as she thought of that gnawing guilt; it had been her constant companion down through the uncountable years.
She looked away from Doranei, not wanting to see the horror in his eyes as she continued, ‘They wanted to make sure we would always understand the fear in a man’s eyes as we drain his life, and that we would always be sickened with compassion for others. We will never become inured to this. Our people were punished for following us out of blind loyalty. In turn, we now feel the suffering of innocents, more strongly than you could ever imagine.’
‘And my presence may only worsen the situation,’ Koezh surmised.
‘Exactly,’ Zhia said wearily. ‘Which is why I want you to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘You and your Legion can do nothing to prevent this city descending into chaos. Anything you do will only fuel the fire.’
‘So you would have me hang back and do nothing? Let the White Circle and the Knights of the Temples determine the course of the next Age?’
‘Our time will come, but not yet.’ Zhia rubbed her arm, where the tight-fitting silk clung uncomfortably in the heat. ‘The best thing you could do is march south.’
Koezh cocked his head at her. ‘You think Lord Styrax is that much of a threat, even with such a great distance between him and the Menin homelands?’
‘I do,’ Zhia said with certainty. ‘In the thousands of years since the Great War, has there ever been a warrior to match you? I doubt it myself, yet Kastan Styrax cut you down and took your armour as his prize. If there is any man in the entire Land who can conquer the Chetse and win the hearts of their warrior orders, I think it is Kastan Styrax.’
‘And then he will not need fresh troops from the Ring of Fire,’ Doranei finished. ‘If he wins the loyalty of the Chetse, who knows how far his empire might stretch?’
‘There might be no limits. If the city-states of the West descend into chaos, as they are threatening to do, they will be unprepared for the Chosen of the War God.’
‘Narkang is ready, and the Farlan are even more powerful than the Chetse,’ Doranei objected.<
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Koezh turned to the young man with an amused expression. ‘Narkang is ready? Narkang was saved only by a stroke of fortune, so I hear. If the White Circle had taken the king and his city, your precious Three Cities would have quickly followed. As for the Farlan, years of unrest have weakened them, and now their greatest leader in a thousand years is dead. In Lord Bahl’s place they have a young man said to have the fury of a storm running through his veins, bearing gifts so laden with power and the weight of history that even his own generals must be nervous.’ Koezh leaned over Doranei and gave the younger man a cold smile. ‘I would say your readiness could be improved a shade. At the very least, your king should conclude affairs in these parts and see to his own borders. Complacency is a foolish thing to die for.’
Zhia smiled as her brother gave Doranei a condescending pat on the shoulder and gestured towards the stage beyond. Now be quiet and watch the play. A little culture will do you good.’
With the briefest of touches on her gloved fingertips, Koezh left soundlessly. That was their way. Experience had taught them that their encounters should be brief and tender, else arguments break out, with dramatic consequences. Zhia was actually ahead in those stakes, having murdered her brother three times now, but they had long ago agreed that the novelty of killing each other had worn off and it was too much of an irritation to do so merely out of pique.
He would do as she asked; Scree was her affair now and he wouldn’t interfere. As the Land edged closer to the brink of ruin and change flickered across the skies, they both knew this might be their best chance.
Zhia smiled.
CHAPTER 18
A wall of clouds surrounded the city, obscuring the moons and stars. Jackdaw could sense it enveloping the city, drawn by one man’s call. The streets simmered in an unnatural humidity, as if the city were festering in its own sour humours. Wherever there was a flat roof he could see bedding laid out, and restless bodies shifting and squirming in the oppressive heat. The citizens of Scree were desperate to escape the stinking closeness of their houses but, in truth, outside was little better.
How long since I felt the breeze? he wondered. It must be just a few days, yet the memory feels more like a dream. From their high station, looking down on the dark bulk of the theatre, he could feel the heaviness in the air, a building storm that had refused to break, but instead lingered with sullen obstinacy, prickling the hairs on his neck. The sudden downpours of early summer had stopped, leaving the population panting like dogs and staring up at the sky with pleading eyes.
The taste of blood persisted in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue in surprise when that bully from Narkang had crept up on him earlier. Ilumene’s mocking grin had shone out from the shadows when he had least expected it. He probed the cut, wincing at the sting, but persisting, because in some strange way it reminded him he was still alive. Was it pain to drive away the numb aching in his heart, or just a reminder that he was human, with a human’s foibles? But every time he felt the cut, he saw the blood, the man’s life spilled out onto the stage, the final bitter act of their latest play.
‘Now,’ Rojak announced from his right. Jackdaw flinched, constantly taut with dread whenever he was in the minstrel’s presence. It was some three hours till dawn, and the city was almost silent in its miserable discomfort. Jackdaw had to stifle a yawn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, not properly. He wouldn’t tonight either, not with the sight of blood filling his mind.
‘We are entertaining Scree with a fine barbed comedy, do you not think?’
Jackdaw said nothing. The play was mildly amusing, in a gross, simplistic way, but the initial humour was soured by the murder at the very end. Though Jackdaw - like the whole city, it appeared - had known it was coming, the sight of so much blood had sickened him. He’d turned his head away as the criminal plucked from the city gaol had howled and flopped around on the stage, interrupting the play by his refusal to die quickly. Ilumene, eyes glinting with fierce delight, had pointed out the anonymous figure of King Emin as the audience shuffled out in a cowed silence. The king’s face had been as dark as thunder. The man from Narkang had not said why he hated his king so deeply, and Jackdaw was afraid to ask. Ilumene constantly hovered on the brink of savagery; the man’s handsome features invariably twisted into a cruel scowl at the very mention of this king.
Thinking about Ilumene’s hatred brought Jackdaw full circle back to the hateful play. Already the stallholders surrounding the theatre were lost to the spell carved into the timbers of the theatre’s wall as it was being constructed. A few continued to work, scarcely even aware of their motions but driven by long-ingrained habit, but the rest had taken to roaming the streets muttering about ghosts, already lost to the madness. They were feeling the bitterness and gloom that echoed from the play’s every line and washed out over the city by the minstrel’s magic. Just the previous morning he’d listened to a fruit-seller, muttering to himself, hands clasped together, head twitching nervously, staring down at the feet of those passing by. He was terribly afraid that the man had been quoting a line of prophecy, from ‘The Twilight Reign’: Six temples, empty and crumbling - darkness heralded by song and flame.
Lost in his thoughts, Jackdaw almost missed Rojak’s question, until Ilumene turned slowly to face him, his dagger hanging loose from his fingers as always. The edge was razor-sharp, but somehow Ilumene never nicked himself, even as he spun the blade through his fingers. The cuts and scars covering his hands were all intentionally inflicted; the only time Ilumene seemed to notice the knife in his hands was when he was slicing a new pattern into his own skin.
Quickly Jackdaw muttered something congratulatory, desperate to get Ilumene’s eyes off him. Rojak smiled at his words and affected a preening of his clothes. If the man had not filled Jackdaw with such creeping dread, it might have looked comical. The minstrel’s clothes were worn and tatty, and he gave off a stench of putrid flesh, for his body was rotting from the inside out. Soon he would be dead, but until then his awful prescience and unnatural powers burgeoned with every passing day. Jackdaw had no desire to know what disease Rojak had contracted, but it would not be coincidental. Their master was too cruel and calculating for that.
‘And what is a vital ingredient of all comedic works?’
Jackdaw frowned, trying to find the right answer, but even the words of the script refused to be pinned down.
‘A mistaken identity, of course,’ trilled Rojak, for all the world as if they were having a sparkling conversation, ‘with the inevitable humorous results.’
Humorous? I doubt anyone but Humene would find them funny, Jackdaw thought, but he said nothing. The opium Rojak smoked didn’t ever cloud his mind; he was always listening, ever ready to pounce on a hesitation or a misjudged word. Jackdaw had made that mistake once, and the thought of doing so again sent shivers down his spine. The shadow watched constantly.
Rojak peered over the edge of the rooftop they were stood on, looking intently down at the empty street below. And as it happens, we know someone who is desperately seeking a face in the crowd, don’t we, Ilumene?’
‘We do, and it would be rude to disappoint the man,’ Ilumene purred in agreement. ‘Especially when he was like a father to me for so many years.’
Whenever Ilumene spoke, it unnerved Jackdaw. The man was powerfully built, and he had hard callused palms that felt like wood when he slapped Jackdaw’s face. He looked like a professional soldier, but his accent was cultured, suggesting intelligence behind that brutal facade. He was strangely hypnotic, and he could, when he chose, be as charismatic as a white-eye. At those times, Ilumene frightened Jackdaw even more than usual.
‘Surely he’ll kill you?’ Jackdaw croaked.
‘I doubt it,’ Rojak said. ‘Ilumene’s former comrades would never dare, for the king will want to deal with this personally. I find their keenness to find us positively heart-warming.’
‘You want to run the risk of them tracking you down as well?’
/> Rojak raised an admonishing finger. ‘But then there would be no mistaken identity, thus no humorous unmasking once it’s too late.’
Jackdaw struggled on. ‘You want me to make someone appear to be you, or Ilumene?’
‘Only a few weeks in the theatre and already you are learning its forms!’ Rojak beamed. ‘They’re here to find Ilumene, so let them see what they want to see.’
‘But who? Who is it you want them to kill?’
‘Come now, that would hardly be fair on our poor actor. He is a man who has done nothing wrong, so he shall not be harmed.’ Rojak waved Jackdaw away dismissively. ‘Go and begin preparations for the spell. It must be ready by midday.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘Oh, not me, I have other business to attend to. Ilumene, was there a member of the Brotherhood you held in higher regard than the others?’
The big man frowned. ‘Beyn,’ he said after a moment’s thought. He balanced the dagger on the back of his fingers. ‘Ignas Beyn is one of the few who is not blind to the king’s faults. He’s loyal to his master, but he’s no fool.’
‘Then Ignas Beyn shall be our second party, but whether he walks through flame or darkness, he shall see it through untouched.’ Rojak spoke slowly, as if intoning a spell. The minstrel was not a mage in the classical sense, but he wielded great power, an understanding of magic’s nature so profound it contained its own force. Jackdaw, a fair mage in his own right, suspected this was closer to how a witch worked, harnessing the brutal potential of the Land itself. This was an unforgiving talent, and laden with consequences; Jackdaw preferred using magic he could channel, rather than standing between mountains and hoping not to be crushed as he directed them to move.
And both bit players to survive, Jackdaw thought grimly. Both to witness Azaer’s strength; a strength born in weakness. Who could have guessed that embracing what makes it feeble would give the shadow such power? It stands between darkness and light and so directs both. When a man’s own strength is turned against him, what defence can he possibly muster - and what are the Gods but power incarnate?